


To smooth the jagged edge from a stone

by cruellae (tinkabelladk)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Romance, Slow(ish) Burn, it's complicated - Freeform, neither is bucky barnes, the Winter Soldier is not gone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-10 20:18:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17432837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinkabelladk/pseuds/cruellae
Summary: When the dark-haired stranger shows up at the door of the simple Wakandan home where Bucky has been living quietly for the past few months, Bucky has almost completely repressed the urge to grab for the carving knife hanging on a magnetic strip on the kitchen wall. He doesn’t slink toward the door with the weapon concealed behind his back. He has been to enough therapy that he can open the door like a normal person and greet the man on the other side. It feels wrong, but he does it anyway, because that’s what’s healthy and sane and what he’s supposed to be doing.The man in the doorway gives him a charming smile, his artfully messy black hair a shock against his pale skin, his eyes an unsettling shade of green. “The Winter Soldier, I presume?”Bucky shuts the door.(Infinity War never happened, and now after the events of Thor:Ragnarok, the Asgardians are settling on Earth. Bucky is chilling on that farm in Wakanda. AKA the Bucky/Loki fic you didn't know you needed.)





	1. A long way from home

When the dark haired stranger shows up at the door of the simple Wakandan home where Bucky has been living quietly for the past few months, Bucky has almost completely repressed the urge to grab for the carving knife hanging on a magnetic strip on the kitchen wall. He doesn’t slink toward the door with the weapon concealed behind his back. He has been to enough therapy that he can open the door like a normal person and greet the man on the other side. It feels wrong, but he does it anyway, because that’s what’s healthy and sane and what he’s supposed to be doing.

The man in the doorway gives him a charming smile, his artfully messy black hair a shock against his pale skin. “The Winter Soldier, I presume?”

Bucky shuts the door.

A second knock comes, firm and calm as the first one had been. “I apologize if I have given offense,” says the man outside. “I truly meant nothing by it.”

Bucky opens the door again, just enough to peer cautiously out. “What do you want?”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“I have a job for you.”

Bucky shuts the door a second time. “I don’t do that anymore,” he says, pressing his back to the solid wood, the fingers of his right hand pressed to the cool, smooth surface. He feels the lack of his left arm acutely.

“That was rude, and I don’t tolerate rudeness.” The man appears before him like a mirage made flesh, stepping out of thin air into the center of Bucky’s humble kitchen.

This time Bucky does go for the knife. The stranger grins and with a flick of his wrists, two short blades appear in his hands. Bucky engages, with intent to harm but not kill, to capture this slippery villain and force him to reveal the sinister forces that sent him. But the stranger matches him, lithe and quick and vicious, laughing as he scratches a long, shallow cut across Bucky’s chest before backflipping over the sofa and sheathing his knives. He holds up his hands, still smiling. “Peace,” he says. “I truly mean you no harm.”

Bucky’s breathing fast, his heart racing, adrenaline singing through his veins and oh—oh how he’s missed this. The thrill of the fight—it’s been so long he feels like he’s thrumming with it, and he’s having a hard time calming down. Even with one arm, he’s a formidable foe, and he used to take pride in it.

“It would appear the Winter Soldier is not so dead as was advertised,” the man says, a slight smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Excuse me. I mean James Barnes, of course.”

“I don’t kill people anymore,” Bucky says. His fingers still grip the carving knife, his heart still beating an exhilarating tempo. He can think of seven ways he could kill the stranger standing in his living room without breaking a sweat or too much of the furniture. He knows that’s the wrong way to think, but he doesn’t want to stop.

“Yes, I made that promise too,” the man says, sounding almost resentful. “I’m not here to hire an assassin. I’m looking for a guardian. My…people…are refugees, from somewhere far away. We’ve come to settle in a place they call Oregon.” He wrinkled his nose slightly, and Bucky got the feeling he wasn’t the biggest fan of the Pacific Northwest. “We’ve got a lot of enemies from across the realms. Our leader and I are strong, but we can’t be everywhere. If you take my offer, you’ll be helping to protect people who have lost everything, and who desperately need a guardian.”

Bucky shrugged his left shoulder, missing the weight that should be there. “Not much use to you like this.”

The stranger raised an eyebrow. “I have a feeling you are more capable with one arm than most men with two. Nevertheless, I do have a solution. Come with me to New Asgard, just for tonight. Just as a guest. I’ll introduce you to the people you would be saving, and…” the corner of his mouth turned up slightly, “to our armory.”

Bucky hesitated. “Oregon’s a long ways off from here.”

The man grinned, mischief dancing in his eyes. The world closed in around them in a disorienting second, and when Bucky opened his eyes again, he was in a refugee camp. There were tents stretched as far as the eye could see, on a field of grass so green it seemed to glow slightly.

Bucky closed his eyes and bent over, hands on his knees, taking a deep, ragged breath. He didn’t handle unexpected changes well.

“Is this him, then?” A boisterous voice, deep and regal, interrupted his thoughts. Bucky straightened, his right hand going to his hip, where he felt the absence of the holster he used to carry. The man, tall, blond, and broad shouldered, gave him a wide smile. “There’s no need for alarm. My name is Thor, King of Asgard. This is my brother, Loki.”

The stranger—Loki—made a bow that seemed more mocking than respectful. “A Prince of Asgard, at your service.”

Bucky blinked at them, memories of a tenth grade history lesson coming back to him. “Loki and Thor?  Like the Norse gods?”

“Something like that,” Thor said, with good humor. “Except that we’re from a different realm, and really not very much like your Norse gods at all except that I am indeed the god of thunder, and Loki here,” he put his hand on the back of Loki’s neck in a fond, brotherly way that made Loki’s eyes go momentarily cold and vicious, “is the god of mischief. It’s led to some fun times for everyone.”

“Right,” Bucky said. It wasn’t too hard to believe. He’d been exposed to weirder things during his time with Hydra.

“Our father died,” Thor said, “and our sister, well…being the goddess of death and all, she has this obsession with killing people. She slaughtered almost everyone in Asgard, growing more powerful each moment she was there. The only way to destroy her was to bring about Ragnarok and destroy our entire realm. Leaving us a people without a home, as it were.” Thor’s smile never faltered, but for a moment it seemed there was something deeply tragic about it. “But Asgard is not a place. It’s a people. We will survive, and continue on.”

“Save your motivational speeches for the people, brother,” Loki said impatiently.

“Your name is Bucky, is it not?” Thor clapped Bucky on the arm, and he startled. Without thinking, he jerked away, grabbed Thor’s wrist, and twisted hard. It would have broken a normal man’s arm, but maybe Thor really was a god of some kind, because he was unyielding as iron.

Bucky stepped back, heart racing. People in Wakanda knew better than to touch him—they were cautious and kind. They knew how twitchy he was, how broken. Now he had tried to injure a king, (a god?), and surely there were to be repercussions. Whether it would be sad, sympathetic eyes or a quick and violent response he wasn’t sure.

But when his panic eased enough for him to let Thor go, he heard hearty, genuine laughter. “A warrior through and through,” Thor declared. “Get this man an arm so that we may face off as equals.”

Loki was watching them carefully, dusk shadows falling on his face, and though he was standing within arm’s reach, something about his eyes reminded Bucky of the tiny, distant glint of light reflected off a sniper’s scope. “Of course, brother,” Loki said. “Come with me, Barnes. I have a gift for you.”

He led Bucky through the field to one of the few actual structures. It was the size of a large house, but a single story, flat roofed and unremarkable. It looked like it had been put up in a hurry, and a faint blue glow shone through the square windows.

Inside, a man in a white lab coat with a head of messy brown hair was fiddling with a machine of some sort. The stainless steel contraption was large enough to fill an entire wall, with dials and whirring gears and strange blue lights. The rest of the space was filled with similar machines, as well as tables covered in messy arrays of paper.

A lab. A scientist. The hum of machinery and the harshness of fluorescent lights. Bucky felt his breath coming shorter and shorter, that strange tingling traveling up his arm, the racing of his heart. It took him back, and back, falling down a rabbit hole of memory. He was strapped to a table—he was restrained in a chair—he was slowly freezing into ice—he was waking in agony.

He was barely aware of the movement of his body or the distant crashing and yelling. He was falling. He was falling, and then it was gone, and he stood in a forest, trees shooting up like towers, the soft soil spongy beneath his feet. The air was still and heady with the scent of things growing.

“Come here,” Loki said, and crossed the distance between them in a single stride, pressing his hand to Bucky’s forehead. Everything—everything rushed at him all at once. And then there was darkness.


	2. Masks

Loki saw them all, in a breathless moment. James Buchanan Barnes, who had bloodied the lip of a fifth grade classmate for saying something insulting about his ma. Bucky, who followed Captain America with the same reverence and loyalty he’d had for small, sickly Steve Rodgers. The Winter Soldier, a weapon forged in suffering and violence. And Wakanda’s White Wolf, living his humble, peaceful life, trying to be content with his empty existence. 

 Loki understood. He knew what it was to change your shape to suit those around you, how deeply one can settle into a disguise, how lost the self can get among the masks. Loki moved through the world like water, fluid and easily adaptable, but in the end relentless enough to smooth the jagged edge from a stone. And so he would.

Barnes startled awake, gasping. He scrambled about for a weapon for a few frantic seconds before he realized where he was. He stared at the ground, breathing heavily, for a long moment. Then he looked up at Loki with shame in his eyes.

“What did I do?” he asked.

Loki waved a hand as though to brush the question aside. “Nothing that can’t be mended.”

“I thought I was doing better.” Barnes hunched his shoulders. “In Wakanda I was…I was getting better. They had someone I talked to, and everything was quiet, and I never had to go anywhere I didn’t know.”

Loki gave him a small, one-sided smile. “And you were bored out of your mind.”

Barnes answered that with a slight shrug.

“The fault is mine,” Loki admitted. “I didn’t know what the setting would trigger. Now that I know what you’ve been through, I will take more care.”

“What I’ve been through?” Barnes’s eyes met his, full of rage that was not necessarily aimed at Loki. “How could you possibly know?”

“I can read your memories,” Loki said.

“Oh.” The fight seemed to go out of Barnes, then, and he leaned back limply against the tree. “Then I guess you know all of it.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Loki said brusquely, getting up and brushing the dirt from his clothes. “I’ve seen worse.”

Barnes nodded, looking a little reassured, and got to his feet as well.

Loki took them back to the the camp, standing in front of another wide, squat building with the same generic white walls. He led Barnes into his own personal quarters, stepping into a lavish sitting room that was a wild mismatch for the austere exterior.

Bruce Banner was standing in the middle of the room, waiting for them just as Loki had instructed. Bucky winced, looking away from the scientist’s patient smile. He must still be feeling self-conscious about his earlier panic attack in the lab. He had done some damage, but like Loki told him, it was nothing that couldn’t be repaired.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Banner said gently. “I know what it’s like to uh…accidentally cause property damage.”

“Indeed,” Loki said wryly. That was a great understatement. “Barnes, meet Dr. Banner. He and I have been working together on a project I think you’ll like.”

“Call me Bruce,” he said, with a friendly smile. “And I know who you are, Bucky. The Captain doesn’t talk much about you but he told me a few things before I…well, you know. Before I left the Avengers, got stuck on an alien planet, and helped these guys destroy their home.”

“Yes, it’s a fascinating story,” Loki said impatiently. “Show him the project.”

“Right, right.” Banner didn’t seem offended at all, leading Barnes to the huge, regal dining table. A white box was sitting on the table, and inside it was a mechanical arm. It looked nothing like the Winter Soldier’s solid, gleaming vibranium arm. This limb was a marvel of sleek golden gears and wires, encased within a shimmering shell almost as clear as glass.

Loki smiled at the small inhalation Barnes made when he first saw the arm, his fingers reaching out to brush along its casing. “It’s pretty,” he said, glancing hesitantly at Loki. “But it doesn’t look that sturdy.”

“Try it out,” Loki said. He didn’t take offense at the insinuation—not much, anyway.

Barnes shrugged off his shirt—almost eagerly, Loki noticed. He had probably been missing his arm all this time. Even so, he had stayed in shape, firmly defined muscles beneath skin that bore a tapestry of scars. Now Loki knew the origin of each and every one. And while he understood Hydra’s desire to have a weapon that fired only on command, their methods lacked subtlety and elegance. Loki was many things, but he was not cruel, and he was not nearly as stupid as Barnes’ former masters had been.

It didn’t take long for Banner to attach the arm, and when he did, Loki was rewarded with another quiet breath of delight as Barnes flexed his fingers and bent his elbow experimentally.

“You should have a full range of sensory input,” Loki said, running his fingers down the smooth, cool exterior of Barnes’ forearm. “Can you feel that?”

Barnes nodded, his eyes wide, and he didn’t flinch away. “Yeah. It’s—it works really well.”

“Good.” Loki let his fingers slowly slide up the mechanical bicep and the curve of the shoulder, and past that onto the web of scar tissue at the shoulder joint. Barnes watched him like a stray dog. Wary but wanting.

“Hey Barnes. Think fast.” Banner was at the other end of the room, lobbing a heavy chunk of steel through the air at Loki’s head.

Barnes caught it easily and crumpled the solid steel in his mechanical hand. He smiled down at it—a small smile but genuine—and held it out to Loki like an offering.

“Well done,” Loki said, and was rewarded with another cautious smile. “I know that Thor is eager to test your strength, but if you are weary, I will make him wait until tomorrow.”

Barnes shook his head. “Let’s do it.”


	3. I know who you are

Bucky thoroughly enjoyed fighting against Thor—much more than he should. It was exhilarating to spar with someone and not have to hold back for fear of breaking them. And he hadn’t fought anyone at all since that miserable battle against Tony Stark, where he was so overcome by guilt that he would rather have just let Stark blast him to pieces. But on that day, in that dismal place, Steve told him to fight, so he did.

Now he was sitting in a small tent, under an incredibly bright light-bulb, while Bruce looked over his new arm to make sure it hadn’t been damaged in the brawl.

“This prosthesis is really something,” Bruce said, using a tiny screwdriver to make minute adjustments to the joint of Bucky’s thumb. “Thor breaks literally everything I make, but this held up just fine.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said. “It feels good to have two hands again.”

“Yeah?” Bruce gave him a warm smile. “I’m glad. And anyway, it’s as much Loki’s work as it is mine.”

“Loki’s an engineer too?” Bucky asked. For some reason that seemed out of character. The crowd outside the fighting ring had been a blur of noise, except that during the brief moment when he had Thor on the ropes, Bucky had caught Loki’s cool, approving smile and felt a small thrill run through him.

Bruce laughed, setting the screwdriver aside. “He’s definitely not an engineer. And I don’t really know how to describe what he put into that arm. They call it magic, and they’re really squeamish about letting me do experiments or measure it.”

“Magic,” Bucky said, skeptically.

Bruce just shrugged. “They are actually gods,” he said. “Like you read about in books.”

“Don’t let that fool you.” A woman stepped in through the tent door, her curly brown hair tied loosely back behind her head. She was wearing a simple Stark Industries T-shirt and jeans, but stood with her feet apart and shoulders spread, like a captain of the calvary, ready to issue orders. “They’re gods but sometimes I think that makes them more foolish than all the rest.”

“Oh, hey Val,” Bruce said, turning towards her. “Have you met Bucky yet?”

Something in her stance softened momentarily when she glanced back at Bruce. “Not yet,” she said, approaching Bucky so she could study his arm. There was something hard and flinty in her eyes, a coarseness borne of necessity. “So you’re Loki’s newest project? Lucky you.”

“I’m nobody’s project,” Bucky said, getting to his feet. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“Well you’d better tell Loki,” Val said, with a slight smirk. “Before he gets any ideas. His tent’s that way.” She pointed and Bucky got up to leave.

He could hear them clearly when he stepped out into the cool night air.

“You could be nicer to him,” Bruce said, and Val laughed, softly.

“You and your soft, squishy heart,” she replied.

“You got me right through it,” he said. There was a quiet moment, and then he laughed awkwardly. “Yeah, I know. I know. You wanna see the green guy?”

“Maybe later,” she said. “Right now I’m here to see you.”

After that, a longer silence, and Bucky gave up on eavesdropping and made his way back to the building that held Loki and Thor’s quarters. Inside, Loki was laying across a thick carpet, a heavy tome open before him, the pages covered with tiny, unrecognizable symbols. He got up to greet Bucky with a smile.

“How do you like it?” Loki asked, letting his fingers trace the almost invisible whorls and runes that covered the crystalline surface. Bucky could feel the path of his fingers as clearly as if it were on his own natural skin, much more clearly than he could with his old, Hydra-made prosthesis. And yet, the touch didn’t make him flinch. In fact, he had the weird urge to lean into it, because it had been so long since someone touched him in any way at all, except to tinker with his arm, or torture him into obedience.

“I like it a lot,” Bucky said. He cleared his throat and tried to remember why he was here. “But I told you. I’m done. I’m retired.”

“That’s a pity.” Loki lifted Bucky’s left hand and touched the pad of each finger, one by one, and the runes there, which no one else seemed to notice, not even Bruce, lit up green for a split second. “I rather enjoyed seeing you matched against Thor. But I’m not Hydra. I’m not going to force you into anything.”

“Didn’t think you were, or I wouldn’t be here,” Bucky said. “I’m real sorry to waste your time.”

“Don’t be.” Loki pulled his hand away, and Bucky felt the lack of his touch acutely for a fragment of a second. “You thrashed my brother pretty well in your second bout—I’d consider that payment enough.”

“It was fun,” Bucky said. “Wouldn’t mind doing it again sometime.”

“Of course,” Loki said, but he sounded distracted, turning to one of the tall bookshelves that lined the walls.

“And thanks,” Bucky said, lifting his new, golden arm. The gesture was lost on Loki, who didn’t turn to glance at him, and he felt the absence of Loki’s attention as acutely as a cold breeze. “For the arm, I mean.”

“Yes, yes.” Loki waved a hand without looking up from the bookshelf. “Anytime.”

Bucky stepped outside into the cold night air. He took three deep breaths, and with each breath, he whispered to himself. “I am not the Winter Soldier. I am not a killer. I am not a weapon.”

He remembered:

_Steve_ _’s hands on both sides of his face, hot like some feverish dream._

_“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky.” Steve’s eyes held his, and Bucky didn’t dare breathe. “You are not the Winter Soldier. That was a lie. Everything since you fell off that train was a lie. You were playing a part, but that’s not who you are.” Steve’s face was lit with gorgeous fury. “I know who you are.”_

Bucky walked slowly through the camp of Asgardian refugees. There were people sitting in circles beneath lighted lanterns, children running through the open space between tents. Innocent people, who did not know how close they slept to a monster.

“I am not the Winter Soldier,” he whispered to himself. “I am not a killer. I am not a weapon.”

“No one here is going to shame you for being who you are.” Loki stepped out of the shadows to join Bucky at the edge of the camp. “In fact, there is great value in being who you are.”

Bucky held his gaze, a glint of green in the firelight. “Tell me about the mission.”


	4. The soldier and the trickster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is coming pretty quickly after the previous one, so you might want to check and make sure you've read the previous chapter already. 
> 
> Short update today, tomorrow's will be longer.

Bucky tried not to flip through his catalog of past missions, calculating and comparing, as he stood with Loki in a snowy forest about a half-mile away from their target—a bunker concealed beneath the mountainside that housed a well-organized group of xenophobes who wanted nothing more than to blow New Asgard off the planet.

“I’ll send you there,” Loki said, gesturing to a jagged cliff face just to the north. “Cover me until I reach the front door, and then come join me.”

Bucky blinked at him. He remembered his missions well enough to know that no high-ranking Hydra official ever joined him on the battlefield. He had assumed that Loki would drop him off, then collect him once the mission was done. But as he watched, Loki’s expensive suit shimmered and transformed into tight black clothes much more suited to fighting.

“What?” Loki asked.

“It’s…dangerous,” Bucky said. “Your part is a lot more dangerous than mine.”

“I’m not an expert sniper like you.” Loki handed him the black case that contained the disassembled sniper rifle. “But if you think you have a better plan, by all means lay it out.”

Bucky studied him, bewildered. Loki didn’t seem even the slightest bit angry at the insubordination. They had been on this mission for fifteen minutes and already it was clear Loki was nothing like Bucky’s masters at Hydra. The realization did a lot to calm his fears. This was different. This was something new.

“No?” Loki raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Very well, then. I’ll meet you at the front door. Have fun, soldier.”

Before Bucky could respond, the world blinked away from him and back, and he was at the top of the cliff. He assembled the rifle quickly and expertly, and lay on the ground at the very edge of the drop to watch as Loki made his graceful way through the trees. He picked off four enemies before Loki got close to the bunker and the fighting started in earnest, too fast and frantic for him to get a good shot off. Loki moved like a wraith, never where his opponent thought he would be, the gray afternoon light glinting off the knives in his hands.

Bucky slid down a less precarious part of the cliff face and sprinted the rest of the way to the bunker, arriving just as Loki was slitting the throat of the last guard. He was breathing hard, a spatter of blood on his neck and face, but he smiled at Bucky as he arrived. They blew open the door to the bunker and made their way through it.

It was even better fighting beside Loki. It felt like they were designed to complement each other—Bucky’s assault rifle fire disorienting and wounding a group of extremists so that Loki could attack from behind, the quick flashes of his knives and the spray of blood. At one point Bucky flung his arm in front of Loki, knocking him back and absorbing a bullet meant to pierce his heart. Bucky hadn’t even thought about the motion—it just happened. Loki gave him a surprised glance, and he grinned back.

By the end his heart was racing with adrenaline and exertion, his breath coming heavy and fast, and he hadn’t felt so good in years. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he was alive, rather than simply existing.

“You did well, soldier,” Loki said, and Bucky felt warmth spread through him. That desire for approval hadn’t been planted by Hydra, but they had used every trick they could think of to magnify it. Now, coming from someone he didn’t loathe with every fiber of his being, it was almost overwhelming. He knew better than to trust the emotion, to mistake it for benevolence on the part of his master, and he tried to hide it, hoping Loki wouldn’t notice the flush in his cheeks.

“We’d better get back,” Loki said. He had a strange artifact in his hand, a golden pyramid shaped structure glowing faintly green, retrieved from one of the corpses. “I need to examine your arm.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky said, holding it out.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not as bad as if I’d blocked the shot with my other arm.”

Loki frowned pensively, slipping his fingers into the hole in Bucky’s shirt left by the bullet that he’d blocked with his mechanical bicep. Bucky tensed, but when Loki’s fingers landed on his skin, the residual pain melted away.

“You protected me,” Loki said approvingly, his fingertips running the length of Bucky’s bicep. At the touch—and the praise—Bucky’s heart sped up and he could feel his cock stiffen. He’d been trained to crave approval for a job well done, and starved for touch for many years. But if Loki could tell what kind of affect he was having on Bucky, he gave no indication, his attention returning to the artifact they found before he teleported them back to New Asgard.


	5. Conditioning

_He had not been the Winter Soldier for long—a few years, perhaps, but not the heavy decades that would eventually settle on him. But by the time he met Aleksei, he had learned the routines and his mind had been thoroughly broken. They had not yet developed the code words—their programming was not so neat, not yet, but it was effective enough._

_Aleksei was a lab tech, one of several assigned to keeping the Winter Soldier in working order. He administered injections, strapped the Soldier_ _’s arms into place on the chair, wiped sweat from the Soldier’s brow when he was restrained, and a hundred other small functions. Aleksei was always gentle in his ministrations, careful of the Soldier’s comfort, and although his mouth kept a firm line, his dark eyes smiled._

_The Soldier watched him, and wanted. It was a small want, and the masters at Hydra saw no harm in it. Aleksei became a reward for a mission well done, his clever hands, his cunning mouth. He always had a smile for the Soldier, a quick, coy turn of his lips. The Soldier would ache to touch him in return, but he was always restrained—for Aleksei_ _’s safety, they told him. And he didn’t fight it. The Soldier knew better than to trust his own hands._

_There was a mission, a long one. Seventy days out of Hydra custody, while he infiltrated a band of Iranian rebels and systematically assassinated fourteen of their leaders. When he returned, Aleksei climbed naked into the Soldier_ _’s lap and rode him, his hands gripping the Soldier’s restrained arms to steady himself._

_“I want to leave,” the Soldier whispered against the flushed pink shell of Aleksei’s ear. “I have—I have passports. I have a way out. Tonight, when the shifts change. We can go tonight.”_

_Aleksei leaned into him, warm and smooth and perfect, and whispered back._ _“Yes.”_

_But the shifts didn_ _’t change when they should. Instead, the heavy steel door to the Soldier’s cell opened, and the Soldier’s handler and Hydra’s ranking officer walked in, Aleksei between them. Aleksei crossed the room, reached under the thin mattress where the Soldier slept, and pulled out the two passports. Alex and Jim, two Americans on vacation with matching smiles, ready to return home._

_“I told you,” Aleksei said, handing the passports to one of the lieutenants with a disdainful glance at the Soldier. “He’s planning to run. Your precious Asset is defective.”_

_The officer looked at the handler, displeasure radiating off of him._ _“What are you going to do?”_

_“Aleksei is a distraction,” the handler said, pulling the firearm from his belt. He tossed it to the Soldier, who caught it easily in his metal hand. “Kill him.”_

_As always, the Soldier obeyed orders. He watched Aleksei bleed to death on the concrete floor and promised himself that he would never want again._

_#_

Loki sat cross-legged on the large hotel bed, surrounded by plush pillows, eating popcorn and watching a strange Earth reality show on TV. Outside the floor to ceiling windows, Las Vegas glowed in the darkness.

He’d needed a break from New Asgard, the fighting, and especially from Thor, and so he’d decided to take a vacation. Instead of returning triumphant from their latest successful mission, he and Barnes were holed up in one of Las Vegas’s finest casinos. Barnes had done very little gambling, content to watch Loki cheat at blackjack until his winning streak became too conspicuous and they had to evade security. With those winnings, Loki had secured them this suite overlooking the Vegas Strip.

On the TV, a group of women were competing for the affections of a bachelor who barely seemed worth the trouble. Loki rolled his eyes at a particularly melodramatic outburst, but kept watching anyway.

A soft knock sounded on the door that led to Barnes’ half of the suite.

“Come in,” Loki called. It was two in the morning, but Barnes had barely slept at all. Loki had been able to sense him lying awake most of the night, something worrying on his mind. This link between them—which Barnes seemed unaware of—was an unintended consequence of the magic Loki had put into the creation of Barnes’ arm. When he concentrated, he could feel a tenuous thread tying them together. It had come in very handy when fighting, and Loki liked being able to keep track of Barnes’ whereabouts.

Barnes walked in. His hair was messy from sleep, falling into his face. It gave him an uncharacteristic look of bashfulness. The rumpled black sweats made him seem even more vulnerable.

“Hey,” he said, looking anywhere but at Loki. “I, uh…d’you think you could look at my arm?”

It seemed a reasonable enough request, and Loki was puzzled by Barnes’ hesitation, which seemed to border on embarrassment or shyness. “Of course,” he said, patting the spot beside him on the bed.

Barnes sat and pulled off his shirt. “Thanks,” he said, softly, his eyes on the TV as Loki ran his fingers over the prosthesis, reaching into it with his magic. He might not be able to fix a problem with the mechanical workings or circuitry, but he should be able to sense it, and perhaps cast a spell to mend it well enough until they got back to New Asgard.

“It, uh, feels kind of off,” Barnes said. He sounded like he was lying, and Loki cast a suspicious glance at him, but his eyes were firmly on the TV.

Loki closed his eyes and traced the runes, moving from forearm upward. He’d almost reached the shoulder when Barnes spoke again.

“Did I do something wrong on the last mission?” he asked.

Loki frowned, opening his eyes. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

Beneath his fingertips, he felt Barnes’ shoulder move in a shrug.

“Well, you executed the last mission perfectly,” Loki said, his fingers moving from the prosthesis onto the scar tissue that radiated out from it across Barnes’ shoulder. Barnes drew in a small breath, then sat perfectly still, barely breathing, as Loki finished his examination. “You are exactly what I’d hoped you’d be. Does that answer your question?”

Barnes swallowed, a flush appearing on his chest and throat. “Yeah. Thanks.”

There was something more to this, a piece to the puzzle that Loki wasn’t seeing. It wasn’t about Barnes’ arm, but rather…something else. He sifted through the memories he’d seen in Barnes’ mind until it came to him. Of course. Praise and pleasure. Disapproval and pain. Hydra had seared obedience into the Winter Soldier’s mind as crudely and effectively as they could.

What Loki wanted from the soldier was…complicated, at best, but it was well beyond blind obedience. Praise he could give and pleasure as well, gladly, but he did not want it to seem a trap, even if it was. He would have to be careful, as he had seen too much of Barnes’ mind to think intimacy with him would be effortless. Loki would never be Steve Rogers, but neither was he Hydra, and that would have to be enough.

A more prudent deity might wait, build a greater rapport before pushing his luck, but Loki was impatient at the best of times, and accustomed to taking what he wanted, when he wanted it. That the Winter Soldier was shirtless on his bed in the middle of the night only made it more difficult to turn away.

Loki let his fingers move past the scar tissue surrounding Barnes’ prosthesis and slowly, slowly slid them further onto his back. “Your muscles are tense,” he said, digging his thumbs gently into Barnes’ shoulders. “That might be the problem.”

Barnes did not respond, but neither did he pull away. He sat still and stiff, barely breathing, as Loki let his fingertips explore the scarred contours of the Winter Soldier’s back.

“It’s…a fuckin mess to look at. I know.” Barnes sounded defeated. “Guess it’s a good thing women don’t look at me like they used to.”

More likely he was too busy checking every exit and watching the hands of every potential threat in the crowd to notice, Loki thought. The scars were far from disfiguring, but they were prominent. Hydra had whipped the Winter Soldier, probably more than once, and the long pale marks crisscrossed over the firm muscles of his back.

“If I could, I would slaughter them all for you,” Loki said. He meant it. He’d like to hunt down every bastard who dared put a hand on his—Loki’s—soldier, and watch them bleed to death.

“I think Steve and his team took care of most of them,” Barnes said.

Of course. The paragon himself—there had been more than enough of him in Barnes’ memories. Shining with goodness no matter what his size, Steve Rogers loomed larger than life in Barnes’ psyche.

“But Steve isn’t here,” Loki said, his hands sliding lower, to rest at Barnes’ waist. “I am.”

“And Bucky Barnes isn’t here either, not really,” Barnes said bitterly, pulling away. “Steve would be disappointed.”

“Well, I can promise you I am anything but disappointed,” Loki said, grinning at his soldier.

Barnes smiled back, relaxing against the headboard. He seemed content like that, and stayed with Loki, watching stupid reality TV shows and laughing at Loki’s jokes until the sun came up.


	6. Who the hell is Bucky?

When it happened, Barnes and Loki were fighting vicious ex-KGB operatives at the bottom of a cavernous mine, once a rich source of coal, now the lair of a minor villain who used brain waves to augment the abilities of her lackeys. Her skills were enough to make Loki almost respect her. Almost.

It all seemed relatively routine, and Loki and Barnes had cut a violent path through her defenses. Loki was working the fiddly controls to a giant safe carved into the back of the mineshaft and Barnes was watching his back. Loki wasn’t sure what was inside the safe, but it had to be good with all the security surrounding it, and whatever it was, he wanted it.

He’d just about figured the combination when he heard it. Two shots in rapid succession, landing not on the hard shell of Barnes’ arm, but in flesh.

“Sniper,” Barnes croaked, his prosthetic arm pushing Loki aside with surprising strength for someone who had just been shot. “Get down.”

Loki rolled to the side and tugged Barnes with him. An odd sense of fury washed over him when he saw Barnes clutching his shoulder, blood streaming down his black armor. This was more than the petulant anger he usually felt when someone messed with one of his toys. This rage was bone deep and hot as lava. He wanted to take apart every operative there, slowly, until they begged for mercy. But there wasn’t time.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he said.

“Mission incomplete,” Barnes rasped in Russian, struggling to get to his feet.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Loki said, holding him firmly in place as the world shifted around them, the drab darkness of the mineshaft replaced almost instantly by the bright light of the open field in the center of New Asgard.

“Mission incomplete,” Barnes said again, going limp with despair as Loki lifted him into his arms. “The Asset has failed.”

“Don’t you dare fucking die on me,” Loki murmured as he carried his soldier into the medical building just beside them. He felt a surprising amount of fear at the prospect.

#

By the time Barnes woke for the first time, he was ensconced in a private room with a wide bed beside a large desk where Loki could work while he waited. He sat up with a start, gasping for air, and Loki immediately abandoned his pile of books to stand at his side.

“How do you feel?” Loki asked.

“The mission,” he said, still speaking Russian. “The mission was compromised.” His face was blank, his eyes dull and empty.

“Barnes,” Loki said. He reached out to touch Barnes’ arm, and Barnes did not flinch away, but endured the caress with grim determination, which was worse. “Hydra is gone. You’re not theirs anymore.”

Barnes nodded. “Understood. The Asset is now yours. Awaiting orders.”

Loki studied him, considering. The pain and shock must have triggered something, cutting away the present and forcing Barnes into the role of the past. “Your orders are to rest,” Loki said, pushing the soldier gently down onto the bed.

“Understood,” Barnes said, his eyes drifting shut again.

Loki watched him until his breathing evened out and it seemed that sleep would take him, wondering. It had not been so long ago that Loki himself had controlled the minds of weaker men, as servants who flawlessly carry out their master’s bidding and ask no questions have no end of usefulness. But he did not want that now, not from Barnes. He wondered if he had changed, or if it was something specific to the Winter Soldier himself.

Perhaps it was Barnes, he thought, running his hand over the soldier’s hair. How many men could withstand such torture, for so long, could lose their whole world and their sense of self, and come out of it unbowed and unbroken, as Barnes had? He was a treasure, rare and priceless, one Loki coveted for his own.

There had to be a way to recover his mind. Barnes was strong—he had broken those chains once and with the right help, he would do so again.

Loki turned to his books. He had not been able to save any from Asgard’s great library, not with the speed at which Ragnarok unfolded. But he had let it be well known throughout the realms that he would pay well for any magical tome that could teach him something he didn’t already know. He needed the knowledge to tame and channel his growing power.

Hela’s powers were not the only thing Odin had locked away at the height of his strength. After his death, Loki found that his own strength was growing, albeit much more slowly than Hela’s immediate return. But by the time they made it to Earth, Loki’s powers had become the rival of Thor’s or perhaps greater—not that he would ever reveal such to his brother. He had not realized how much strength Odin took from him, or how little Odin truly trusted him, and it stung him to know. Even after Odin’s death, he would not let his sons be.

He had discovered many secret magics, techniques and tricks that had fallen into disuse and been forgotten. And as Barnes stirred beside him with a soft whimper, clearly in the grips of some nightmare, Loki opened a heavy tome and began to read. There had to be a solution somewhere in all this lore.

#

Steve Rodgers was having a very bad day. A freezing rain had soaked him to the bone as he limped stiffly back to the rendezvous point, but despite that there was somehow still gunk in his hair from the sea monster he’d just had to tear apart with his bare hands after it destroyed all of his weapons and his bike.

All in all, he was in a pretty shitty mood even before Loki of Asgard appeared on the road before him, wearing a black leather jacket instead of his Asgardian garb, rainwater dripping off of black hair. He wasn’t armed, but that didn’t mean anything. Steve tensed, wishing he had a weapon.

“Captain Rogers. I am in need of your help.”

“You really shouldn’t be on this planet,” Steve said, speaking slowly as he tried to assess his options. There weren’t many. “You know that.”

“I don’t have time for this.” Loki held up his hand. Green fire danced across his fingertips, licking up into the air, unaffected by the cold rain. “I will burn down your city. All of it. Every single person in New York City will die if you don’t help me, right now.”

Steve assessed him cautiously. Loki spoke with his same measured coldness, but there was something about him that seemed almost frantic. He was afraid, and he probably really did need Steve’s help with whatever villainous project he had cooked up.

“Okay,” he said. “Take it easy. Let’s talk about this.”

“Your friend. The Winter Soldier. When you met him, his mind was not his own,” Loki said. “And then he broke free. How?”

Steve blinked, feeling like he’d been hit in the chest. Whatever Loki wanted, he didn’t think it would involve Bucky. “How do you know about him?” he asked, stepping forward. His hands clenched into fists and he drew himself up to his full height. He grabbed Loki by the shoulders, gripping hard. “Where is he?”

The blast of magic sent him flying across the rocky ground, until his back hit hard against a brick wall. It crumbled around him, and he scrambled out of the debris. Adrenaline sang through his body, hiding the pain away to be felt later, when he was safe.

Loki advanced on him, golden staff in hand. “How did you free Barnes’ mind?” he asked.

“Why?” Steve shot back. “Are you trying to make more soldiers like him?”

The side of the golden staff caught him in the jaw, and he fell backward into the mud. Loki advanced on him, settling a boot on his chest and grinding down. Steve grabbed Loki’s ankle and twisted hard, flipping him. He put a hand around Loki’s throat, pushing him hard into the ground. “Where is he? Where’s Bucky?”

“If he wanted to see you…” Loki drove his knee up into Steve’s gut, “don’t you think he would have told you himself?”

Loki shoved him, hard, and Steve went flying backward, skidding in the mud. He scrambled to his feet and lunged forward. “Where is he? What did you do to him?”

“I’m asking you—” Loki blocked his punch with a quick dart of his left forearm, then drove his right fist into Steve’s gut, knocking the breath from him. “—I’m asking you to help him.”

Steve stepped back, trying to breathe. “To help him?”

“Yes.” Mud was caked on Loki’s clothes and smudged in his hair, but he didn’t seem to care. He looked furious, but also frightened, as he let green fire snake through the grass around them. “I don’t have time for this. You will help me save Barnes or I will burn your city to the ground.”

“Okay, okay.” Steve put his hands up. “Just tell me what the problem is.”

The world bowed away from Steve in a dizzying moment, and when it returned he was in a different place, in someone’s lavish living quarters. Loki set his staff aside and led them into the next room, where Bucky was sitting on the bed. He looked good, like he’d been eating regularly and taking care of himself, but when he turned towards them, there was that haunting blankness in his eyes that Steve remembered from their first meeting.

_Who the hell is Bucky?_

“Hey,” Steve said, cautiously. Loki stood by the door and said nothing, watching them intently. “How are you doing?”

Bucky’s eyes landed briefly on his face, then flicked to Loki. “Status: normal,” he said, and Steve’s heart sank.


	7. You can't go home again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slight warning for a kiss with mildly dubious consent (details in end notes)

The Soldier knows a prison when he sees one. It may be more comfortable than most—luxuriously furnished quarters, good food and as much as he wants, and time to spend with Steve, who is kind and speaks to him in a way that makes him wish for something he can’t remember. But it is a prison nevertheless. The Soldier knows this because he knows himself well. He is a weapon to be used, and nothing more. Even if the door to the armory was opened, would a pistol walk out of its own accord? No. It requires a will to fire, and his is buried so deep underground it may as well be gone.

He failed a mission. The mostly healed wounds on his chest and right shoulder remind him daily. His handler watches him with green eyes and rewards him with silence. He is still waiting for the punishment to come. It is cruel of his handler to draw it out so, to let him twist and wonder what form the pain will take. But he is used to cruelty.

They talk about him—this much he knows. Something worries his handler, and he discusses it with Steve and the others who come and go, speaking softly so the Soldier can’t overhear. His handler is often with him, in the large room they say is the Soldier’s own. He sits at the Soldier’s deck and leafs through heavy books written in some archaic language the Soldier doesn’t understand.

Today the handler looks up from his book and studies the Soldier. The handler looks weary, and lonesome, and it makes something in the Soldier’s heart ache to see it.

“Tell me something you remember,” the handler says. “Something good. Something that brought you joy.”

The handler’s questions are often puzzling, this one included. “Clarify.” The Soldier’s voice is rough. He doesn’t speak often.

“Well…” The handler drums his long, elegant fingers on the desk. “Do you like it when Steve visits you?”

The Soldier nods, hesitantly. He doesn’t know where the question is leading, and it puts him on edge. He hopes that they won’t take Steve away, not when they have something almost like friendship.

“You could go with him when he leaves,” the handler says. The Soldier can tell that even the thought of it makes his handler unhappy. “You have my permission, or whatever you need. If it will make you happier, then go.” He slams his book shut and gets up. He’s almost to the door when the Soldier finds his voice again.

“No,” he says.

His handler leans in the doorway, his black hair falling in his face. His jaw is tense, but the Soldier cannot tell if he’s displeased him or not. His handler is hard to read. “Why not?” he finally asks.

“Because.” The Soldier clears his throat. “Because when he betrays me, I’ll kill him.”

“Why would you think he’ll betray you?”

The Soldier looks away. “It happened before. His name was Aleksei.”

Understanding crossed the handler’s face, and the Soldier realized the entire story must have been in his file. He looked away, ashamed.

“Thank you for telling me,” the handler said. “I need to think on this. Will you be okay alone, or would you like me to find Steve?”

“I’m fine,” the Soldier said. He didn’t want to talk to Steve, not with his insides all in turmoil. Aleksei—how long ago was that? Time did funny things when you were taken in and out of cryo so often.

#

The handler had lit strange incense before bed, and the Soldier’s room had a pleasant perfume to it as he got ready for bed with his usual routine. A hundred push ups, a hundred sit ups, and then fifty pull ups on the bar in the doorway. As he worked out, the room began to shift, and change, in a way that seemed completely natural, somehow. It shrank, and the walls became the familiar gray concrete of the bunker, the door a dull steel. The Hydra logo was painted on the inside of the door.

A dream. Steve, his handler with the green eyes, Dr. Banner, and all the others had been nothing more than a dream or a Hydra induced hallucination while he was on the ice. And now he was out again, cold all the way through, but in good form and ready for the next mission. He wondered if that taste of freedom had been his punishment for the mission he’d failed, or if there was more torture to come.

The door opened, and he startled, scrambling to the back of his bunk. A familiar slender, diminutive form stepped inside, and the door clanged shut behind him.

The Soldier stared. “I—I thought you were dead.”

Aleksei gave him a smile that was both sweet and wicked, his long black hair brushing the tops of his shoulders. He must have let it grow in the time the Soldier was on the ice. And had his eyes always been that striking shade of green?

“Maybe you dreamed it,” Aleksei said. “They told me you have dreams when you’re in cryo.”

The Soldier nodded. He was used to being unable to trust his sense of reality while in the sunless depths of this bunker. “I failed the last mission,” he warned Aleksei.

“No,” Aleksei said, climbing into the bunk beside him, all long, graceful limbs in a black and emerald Hydra uniform with colors almost too vivid for this drab place. “You didn’t fail.” Aleksei crawled closer and put his hand over the Soldier’s heart. “You survived. That was the most important part of the mission.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” the Soldier said. He liked the feeling of Aleksei’s warm hand on his chest. He wanted to kiss Aleksei, but usually Aleksei would turn his head away if the Soldier tried. So he just stayed still, and let Aleksei touch him.

“Would they let me see you if you had failed?” Aleksei asked.

It was a good point. Aleksei’s visits were always rewards for a job well done.

Aleksei started to say something, then stopped. He leaned in and pressed his lips to the Soldier’s, kissing him long and slow and gentle, like a lover might. “You deserve so much better than me,” he murmured, more to himself than to the Soldier, who was baffled by the sentiment. The Soldier was not a person, he was an Asset. He deserved nothing, and Aleksei was infinitely more than he could ever hope to have.

“Listen to me,” Aleksei said, pulling back. “I’m in danger and so are you. I need you to get us out of here, right now.”

The Soldier frowned at him, a memory tugging at his mind. Blood on concrete, a slumped form with dark, unseeing eyes.

“You can do it,” Aleksei said. “All you have to do is break down that door, and we’ll be free.”

The Soldier glanced at the reinforced steel door, and back at Aleksei. The cell smelled like sweet smoke, and he knew somehow that Aleksei was absolutely right. That outside that door lay green fields and sunshine and a sky so wide you could drown in it. All he had to do was break it down, and walk out.

Aleksei kissed him again, just a brief brush of his lips, and pressed their foreheads together. “I know who you are,” he said. “And I know you can do this.”

The Soldier made his slow, cautious way to the door. It was heavy steel, dull and unwashed, with the Hydra logo painted in red upon it. It seemed to loom larger than life, and he could see the faces of his handlers and the other Hydra officers who owned him over the years shimmering and swimming on its reflective surface. He flexed his fists, his breathing coming short and sharp. He didn’t dare glance back at Aleksei.

He didn’t know how long he stared down the door, unable to take a full breath. The faces spoke to him in Russian, telling him to do terrible things, reminding him of the atrocities he’d committed and the atrocities he’d suffered.

“Stand down,” they said. “You belong to Hydra. We made you. We built you. We own you.”

“My name—” he clenched his metal fist and slammed his hand hard against the door to shut them up, “—is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. My friends call me Bucky. You can call me your worst fucking nightmare.”

He threw himself against the door, metal shoulder first, and with a loud cracking and splintering, it fell outward, and he stumbled into the next room. He turned and grabbed Aleksei, who was grinning madly at him, green eyes glinting. He threw Aleksei over his shoulder and ran through hallways, barely seeing them, until they were outside under the stars.

He set Aleksei on the ground and took a moment to stare up into the heavens, and he was so ridiculously, unbelievably grateful for every pinprick of light and every caress of the gentle breeze on his skin that he could hardly breathe. He turned to give Aleksei a kiss, but it was Loki in his arms, watching him with a careful, distant gaze.

“Do you remember?” Loki asked.

_Aleksei. A bullet in his head, a bloodspatter on a gray wall._

Bucky nodded.

“I’m sorry for the deception, truly.” Loki really did look apologetic. “I didn’t know how else to bring you back.”

“I understand,” Bucky said. He wouldn’t hold it against Loki. But his heart ached all the same.

“Is everything okay?” Steve was jogging towards them, frowning intently. “Bucky, are you okay? I heard something crashing.”

Bucky realized his arms were still around Loki’s waist, and gently let him go, stepping back. “Yeah. It’s okay, Steve. I—I’m feeling better.”

“Oh, thank god,” Steve said, tugging him into an embrace. “I was so worried about you, buddy.”

By the time Steve let him go, Loki had disappeared into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dubious consent warning: Loki kisses Bucky while he's shapeshifted to look like someone else. It's necessary to convince Bucky of something, and he apologizes after. Bucky is okay with it when he finds out.


	8. You deserve the world

Thor, of course, felt it was necessary to have a banquet celebrate the successful defeat of the Anti-Asgardian movement and, although it wasn’t advertised this way, Barnes’ return to them. Loki would have been shocked had it been otherwise. Thor loved to celebrate.

The victory hadn’t been that difficult—with help from Steve Rogers, Loki and Barnes had easily torn apart the final militant compound and captured their leader, who sat in a magical cell in their most fortified structure, awaiting Thor’s judgment. He had already been subject to Loki’s judgment, a brutal interrogation aided by magic. Barnes had not flinched when their prisoner screamed, but nether had he enjoyed it. He was pragmatic, a rare trait in mortals, and one Loki greatly appreciated. Rogers would certainly have disapproved.

“Enjoying the festivities?” Thor asked, grinning. In one hand he held an entire turkey leg, the charred meat gleaming with grease.

“Was all this really necessary?” Loki asked, gesturing to the long tables of food, the Asgardians milling about in their finest clothes, the roped off arena nearby where Barnes and Rogers were teamed up against the Hulk for a battle that was more show than substance.

“What, you don’t enjoy watching your pet mortal face off against one of our strongest?”

“My pet mortal?” Loki asked, coolly. It was true that watching Barnes fight—his raw strength and quicksilver cunning—was appealing. But Barnes was not his. They had regained their rapport since Barnes recovered, but Loki could tell that Barnes was closest to Rogers, and probably always would be. He was annoyed that he had not been able to let go of that infatuation, and resented the fact that once again he had found himself in the shadow cast by some beefy blond idiot. Sometimes it seemed that was the most dominant recurring theme in his life.

“Be careful. Mortals are fragile. Though perhaps not that one as much as most.” Thor blinked slowly at him, just once. “That was a wink,” he explained. “It’s a little difficult to tell with the eyepatch, I know.”

Loki rolled his eyes. “There’s no need for such theatrics. Barnes is a good soldier. That is all.”

“Is that so, brother?” Thor clapped him on the arm. “Well, perhaps I will seduce him then. Since you care so little what he does.”

Loki turned his attention back to the fight. “You don’t lie with men.”

“Perhaps I have changed,” Thor announced. “Perhaps seeing such a strong man has been enough to sway my desires.”

“That’s enough, brother.” Loki sighed, getting up. He wasn’t in the mood for Thor’s good natured teasing—it had all the subtlety his hammer once possessed. “Enjoy your feast, and the fight.”

“Wait, Loki!” Thor followed him into the quiet, dark hallway behind the feasting chamber. “I truly mean nothing by it. I just—I have enjoyed seeing you happy. If this mortal makes you so, then I’m glad for it.”

 Again Loki felt that strange mix of resentment and affection that tugged him two different ways. He never knew where he stood with Thor. In his brother’s shadow, Loki had grown into the cold, clever creature that he now was. For that, he didn’t know whether to thank Thor or despise him. And yet Thor loved him; he was as certain of that as he was of the cycles of the sun over Earth. Thor loved Loki despite his Loki’s own bitter nature, and that was a rare, precious gift indeed.

“There is nothing between Barnes and myself,” Loki told Thor, “but the sentiment is…appreciated.”

#

The judge declared victory for Steve and Bucky, and the Hulk knocked out half the fence surrounding the fighting ring, growling in anger. But at a chiding word from the Valkyrie, he calmed, holding out a giant green hand for Steve and Bucky to shake.

“Good fight,” he said.

“Good fight,” Steve agreed. Bucky was too distracted to chime in, his eyes sweeping the crowd. He couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that Loki had not been watching him.

Steve walked him back to his quarters, looking pensive. “Hey, Buck,” he said, when they arrived at the doorway. “Look, I’ve gotta get back to…you know.”

“Back to saving the world?” Bucky said.

“Yeah.” Steve cleared his throat. “That. Hey, I was thinking, do you wanna come with me? You don’t have to fight if you don’t want to, you could just…It would be just like old times.”

_I_ _’m with you to the end of the line._

It was what Bucky Barnes had always wanted. Bucky and Steve, a single unit, standing up against all the injustices in the world. But he wasn’t just Bucky Barnes anymore. He was also the Winter Soldier, and the White Wolf, and whoever he’d become now, some hideous stitched amalgam of all those varied identities. But if he went with Steve…maybe he could become Bucky Barnes again, and bury the Winter Soldier so deep it would be like the last seventy years never happened.

“Can I think about it?” Bucky asked.

“Sure,” Steve said. “Take as much time as you need.”

Bucky went inside and showered, washing the grime from the fight off his skin. The Hulk was not above rolling in the mud, and his unfortunate opponents were usually filthy by the end of a bout.

Once clean and dressed, he found Loki sitting on a plush couch in his quarters, flipping through a thick tome. “Hey,” he said, clearing his throat. He knew he still tended to move so silently that he startled people with his presence. It was a habit he hadn’t been able to break.

But Loki just looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. He’d kissed Bucky so sweetly when he’d been wearing Aleksei’s countenance, but ever since he’d been a little distant, a little aloof. Maybe he regretted it, or maybe Bucky had fucked up somehow. Or maybe it was all in his head—it was impossible to read Loki’s moods.

“We won the fight,” he said.

Loki smiled. “As I knew you would.”

His approval, his confidence in Bucky’s abilities, felt good.

“Steve’s leaving,” Bucky said. “He asked me to go with him.”

Loki gave him a frank, appraising glance. “If you are asking me for orders, I’m not going to give any. You’re a free man, you may go where you wish.”

Bucky frowned. Part of him had been hoping for orders, so he wouldn’t have to make the decision. “Don’t you want me here?”

“It is not a question of what I want.” Loki turned back to the book, warm light playing on his proud profile.

“So that’s it,” Bucky said, glaring at Loki. He felt a strange hot anger, at the rejection and the way Loki was so nonchalantly ignoring him. “I finish the mission and now you don’t have any use for me anymore. Just like they used to do. You might as well put me back on the fucking ice.”

“If I wanted you to be a mindless weapon, I would not have woven the illusion that let you break free.” Loki still didn’t look up from the tome in his hands. His tone was cold, and the reminder of what had happened, how easily his mind had broken, dispelled Bucky’s anger, casting a shadow of hopelessness in its place.

“Then what do you want me to be?” Bucky asked desperately.

Loki closed his book and set it aside. He turned to Bucky, a small smile playing across his features. “I want you to be who you are. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“That’s it?” It seemed too simple, and at the same time, dauntingly difficult.

“You have been through many lifetimes of suffering and come out of it with your spirit unbroken,” Loki said. “You are a rare treasure, and as a trickster deity, I have a fondness for treasure.”

 _A treasure._ It was hard not to get hung up on those words.

“However,” Loki continued. “I am not blind. I see what is between you and Captain Rogers. If that is what makes you happy, then I would bid you to stop interrupting my studies and get on with it.” He said the last few words with a sharp air of annoyance, waving his hand.

Bucky frowned. He didn’t entirely understand what Loki meant. “Steve and I are friends,” he said. “Just like you and me.”

Loki arched a brow skeptically. “When you were delusional, you assumed that I was your handler and he was your friend. You don’t trust me, not like you do for him. And you flinch every time I touch you.”

Bucky hadn’t ever thought of it in those terms, but he guessed it made sense. And he felt bad, for making Loki think it was some kind of dislike. He felt like he needed to explain himself. Loki, after all he’d done, deserved at least that much.

“It’s not…” He hesitated, wondering how to put it into words. “Steve’s my best friend. When he hugs me, it’s just—it’s just that. When you touch me…it makes me want things.” He stared at the floor, feeling shame hot in his chest. “Things I’m not supposed to have. Things I don’t deserve.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Loki said. His brusque tone was a relief—Bucky felt so vulnerable and exposed that tenderness might have broken him, poking into all the places that he was wounded. “You deserve this whole world,” Loki continued, sounding almost bored. “If you stay, I will give it to you.”

Bucky laughed, and it felt like all of the jagged, broken things inside him got a little lighter for a moment. “You’ll give me Earth?”

Loki smirked at him. “Yes.”

“It doesn’t count as a gift if I have to help you conquer it.”

This time Loki laughed, a warm, melodic sound. It made Bucky want to be closer to him, a lot closer. He leaned in, feeling awkward and clumsy, but Loki met him halfway, pressing their lips together. For someone with such sharp edges, Loki’s kiss was surprisingly gentle, careful at first, and then deeper and more passionate. When they pulled away, Bucky was breathing hard, his skin hot and flushed.

Loki slipped his hand into Bucky’s hair, carding gently through the long strands. Bucky didn’t flinch from the caress. He knew it would take time to work up to more intimate things, but this was okay. It was good. Now that he knew he was allowed to have it, he thought he might never get enough.

“It’s been a long time for me,” Loki said, with the slightest hint of melancholy, and Bucky wondered who had come before him, and what had happened. “It’s hard for me to be so vulnerable, or to trust so completely.”

“Yeah.” Bucky cleared his throat, putting a little more distance between them. “Me too.”

Loki hesitated for a moment. “Stay in Asgard,” he said. “Please.”

His tone was frank and guileless, vulnerable, and so unlike him that Bucky was taken aback.

“If I say yes, will you kiss me some more?” Bucky asked, grinning. Loki laughed too, and drew him in for an embrace.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading <3
> 
> Last year I wrote [the book of my heart](https://www.amazon.com/Dark-City-Sarah-Kay-Moll-ebook/dp/B07FP4M6BH).


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